there's no couching this effort...
celluloid film jitteriness of memory...
akin to a centipede thrumming
about a dank cellar.
i can not vacuum this stead...
with mind over matter...you
are It...the holy of holies afforded me.
noteworthy, and uncelebrated...we are--
as far's love's itemized.
incommunicado, and legendary--
our poetic licenses bestowed upon
one another...years would go where they
go...and concerned parties would head-****
the genesis/apocalypse of our Go...minus been.
my love's no recourse to lovelessness...
(for you...that is) for...i'm drawn to a
picture, picturing overexposure.
Hardening, hard, and harder times felled
atop us...now help me lift.

i know what newton tells us

i know countries and continents and cities

i know the planets and their moons

but i did not know the galaxy of my body the planets that are my organs or the nebula of my mind
until you showed me

you taught me and showed me and led me with coarse hands and eyes deeper than any space i have ever traveled.  you caught me in your gravity when you showed me ribosomes and platelets and when you traced my veins like they were a map you needed to follow without even knowing where it would take you. you told me the cosmos are forever but the body dies and that is far more beautiful than any atmosphere or supernova. i want to chart the stars on your skin with my mouth and i want to show you the taste of an atom and i want to teach you what overexposure to your radiation does to me but you are already laughing and telling me that something as small as you does not deserve the attention of the universe.

when i said i wish i had never met you

i told the truth

the universe was easier to comprehend

when it was only dead stars

instead of the way you look at me

It's been a bit jarring, this stumble into symmetry,
my good senses
               gluing themselves intact
         like an eleventh-hour craft project.

No string sections swelling for this comeback kid--
the just desserts, in this case,
                             arrive in the form
                             of a steady hum
                             that breezes the past away
                     with the ease of a loose eyelash
           flying in a tropical storm.

It took years to embody this equilibrium,
to approach the mid-morning sun
and not recoil from overexposure,
no longer draped in the sweat-soaked robes
                 of secrecy. I have tripped upon a biome
                 of bravery, fallen into the measurements
                 that require no prickly tampering
                 from the rusty, dulled needle
                of a fraudulent tailor.

I don't get angry with the sun
For being what it is
Or doing what it does
When my skin burns
From overexposure
I just become disappointed
With myself
You were no different
I just wanted you to be

It has been so long since I last heard my name out of your mouth that this time, it takes me by shock. I’m standing in the shadows, mouth agape, and you’re illuminated by the sun rays, blinding smile on your face. It’s funny, I note as a passing thought; we’ve been the light and dark of each other for as long as I can remember. You pull me out of my stupor, eyes finding mine and as always it feels like returning home.

"Are you coming?"

I shake my head, the weather is searing and my health is frail. The sun has never been a sanctuary for me like it has been for you, hair a faded brown and skin tanned from overexposure to the day. I pale in comparison, thriving in the moonlight and the shadows, at night and in the cold.

To my surprise, you don’t push any further. The briefest shock in your expression lingers before realisation sets in, and the corners of your lips turn up. It then occurs to me that you remember all that I have told you before, years ago when I thought you weren’t listening. I suppose you have been, all this while. A small spark of hope ignites somewhere deep inside my lungs.

"Tsk."

You truly smile by this time, fondness embedded in your gaze and the hints of affection in the tilt of your head. I return the gesture, a nervous, happy laugh escaping even before I can stop it. The moment is a giddy whirlwind of emotions; I have never been able to control myself around you.

-

I never notice until much later, but I spend the rest of the day away from the shade and under the sunlight; transfixed by your stare.

In these moments I can only think of how much I love you.

(A.H.Z)

From sands I arise,
to the faded skies over,
these hardened eyes,
and overexposure.

The bone-dry plains,
and arid weather,
have crackled my skin.
this sun-baked nether.

Drain on morale,
and eroder of soul,
nothing left now,
so I dig my last hole.

the yellow-white sea,
it stretches on.
it thirsts for me.
I am--long gone.

over and far away
across the sea
the ghosts i see
they see through me
silent mockery casts
around my steel composure
decays my hope by
truth's overexposure
i seek shelter
in my contradictions
i seek power
in my prided perceptions
raindrops on starboard recall
beat me to mud
i am blinded by
what is misunderstood

they hold me to every word relayed
always remind me with a nod
that i'm always searching
for those lost at sea
always returning
to my journey
to the dead

they're comprehendible
never moving
never touching
just between
real love
and imperfection
i coast these waters
at my own self speed
i long for something
which doesn't exist

Peace on your head,
Brother
I Love you.
We Love you.
PEACE


















YOU HEARD WHAT I SAID.
WITHOUT HIM I WOULD BE DEAD
nah
No im not deaf
Place treble cleff
Im not the best but one day I hope to be the best that I can be. That we can be, be free. NO SEE we are one and of one blood you YOU HERE ME SON said we are one we ONE STAR the son  we need the blood I see the son  BLINDING EYES im fighting lies
inside my mind i hide the blind. Like playing poker but the river is only mine imtryin to find;
A doubtfull shadow in a drought over overexposure in a year boutes
ROUND 1
HERE ME CLEARY  MY SON
ears and eyes can be numb
Steady ******* my thumb
Heres the truck and it runs
Spill my ill from this quill bleed a vision
Instill?
Piledrive at the mill
Robots is Optomis drilled
Pills and pharmacists ****
Im just a kid when it comes to this
But poetry is this is
Hope you dont miss this
TWIST IT UP IF YOU WANT
To do it thru it we **** hate
And Love is my median
No not a comedian
Just meditate
I see a dream and it's color blind
I said the gun is thiers and im right
We SOLD YOU RIGHT!?

IM COLD AS ICE.
but hold it tight.
I speak too boldy right.
Seams white is not the light?
Mold me and soul the frieght
GHOST IS A SOLDIER NIGHT
hahha ^-^
                          **hahha love ya Brother

The plaintive surround can rinse
the deep space crush of Hubble's
score.
A fast-paced bandit's sable cloth
homing the absurdum of a priceless
presentation...eyes unawares wending
brilliant ways abruptly announced.
The common Light is not passable--
but is in love with eyes...the holy of
holies--rarefied districts commencing
willful overexposure.

He’s journeyed many a treacherous route, scuttled ancient-ships,
ridden the skyscraper-troughs of crystal-seas, hunted enemies,
alone.

He’s guided by the lamps of the Heavens, the countless stars,
the sun and the moon, calculated the astrolabe,
alone.

He’s braved hurricane winds, the triangles of Bermuda, windless days,
leviathans & squids, scavenging whites and other such hungry things,
alone.

He’s got the strength of a Goliath, keeps his tenderness guarded under lock and skeleton-key,
his wounds bleed forever in the brokenness of a self-induced solitary confinement,
alone.

He’s the truest mariner, fights black-tempests within, protects himself from overexposure,
from another broken heart,
alone.

Eh, I'm not too concerned,
But trust me that behavior is learned,
Maybe it's just overexposure,
That I'm not looking over my shoulder
For the grim reaper to get me,
Even though I can feel the heat
From his breath
On the back of my neck,
While his skeleton feet are always in check
With the tracks of my boots,
And it's not that the danger doesnt compute,
People often stop us and ask
If we all just put on masks,
But the truth is not a lie,
Everyday I wake up prepared to die,
Because if I have to meet my maker today,
I know exactly what He'll say,
That the firefighter infront of him,
Risked everything when chances were slim
To save a life I didnt know,
And for that my wings will always glow,
So to you death is the word,
That breaks your heart and makes you sob,
But to me, it's all just part of the job.

A fizzle.
A fury.
The rabbit and the hole.
Like puzzle pieces left out in the rain.
Overexposure,
         White hot.
Ex-communication leads to excommunication.
This is your brain on drugs.
Intravenous lover,
  **** the marrow dry.
          White hot.
  blistering
Pustules darling!
Transgress,
then offer a pause,
      as though we had ever begun to play.
Like a claustrophobic *******,
leasing out a shoebox.
I want in for good.
I want out for life.
Lets play hide,
  all the seekers are dead.

John Doe died this morning,
a man of indeterminate age
They found him in an alleyway,
a blanket of newspaper lining his cage
They said it was overexposure,
hypothermia and bad luck.
He was pronounced, tagged, thrown in a bag,
and loaded onto the truck.

John Doe had lived in that same spot
for fifteen haggard years.
Yet nobody knew his real name,
or listened to his tears.
Was he once a father? Or
was he always just a punk?
The community just passed him by
To them he was nothing but a drunk.

Whether or not John Doe had seen
better times seemed irrelevant.
Legally, John wasn't a human being
just a negative urban element.
His last words were "Spare some change
for coffee and hot bread?"
But nobody could spare the time,
and left John Doe for dead.

I wonder how long John sat dead
before anybody saw or cared.
I wonder how many handfuls of change
really could have been spared.
A little bit of warmth and hope
Were all that he desired;
But John Doe never saw a break,
until his time expired.

Old John was unidentified,
no license or social security;
no family reported him missing,
see, John was just an "impurity".
The mortician took his organs out
and stitched him up with wire.
Threw him on the metal table
and slid him in the fire.

John Doe was disposed of
in accordance with local code
Then they cleaned up the alleyway
He lived and died in, his abode.
John Doe is dead and gone now,
but I guess it's all the same.
John had never really lived
since the world forgot he had a name.

Let me show you to that burrowed house
up on the hill, it's ages old!
Come, let us shuffle through its memories
and see what is to unfold.

Faded are the shingles
with windows yellowed and stale,
through overexposure to the sun
all of the paint is flecked and pale.

Tattered is the rosy wallpaper
stained are the wooden floors,
and all of the hardened, crusty carpets
are discolored with ancient molds.

Winds howl through the hallways
yet are too damp in the midst of heat,
not to mention winters' frigidness seeping in
not one table can stand, their legs too weak.

Grass has sprung up through the floorboards
pipes are rusted and they leak.
Every bulb is dead, the curtains are shreds;
both groupings are now just clouded and meek.

But glance upon these remains once more,
see what they have to hide-
for not until you know there's gold
would you look for a treasured chest to peek inside.

All lights and curtains are worn down with fingerprints;
these rooms must have been quite used.
Not often such delicacy can be found, seeing
floors and pipes both falling to nature's muse.

Tables' legs are old and tired of standing,
why not let them sit a while?
Yet no matter what weather it shall be exposed to
this home, to its fate, has reconciled.

Carpets all were once soft and
scrunched between our children's toes,
how beatiful these floors and wallpaper must've been.
How beautiful? Only us aged would know.

The paint was once pungently new
it gleamed in softened sunlight,
while the windows acted as doors to dream's ways
and the shingles kept out the night.

Let me show you to that burrowed house
what memories it holds of ours, my dear
Come, lay here with me in this bed we shared
for now, in looking back, we hold no fear.

We're in a battlefield that most can't understand; others have their own opinion about this no man's land.
There are even those who won't accept the unseen reality because their morality shifts their mentality so they view spirituality as an abnormality.
Negative forces are all around taking on various disguises to bound, drown and break us down below the ground.
At war with our guardian angels for our soul, they'll use anything that can benefit towards their control to bring us down into their hell hole.
Though the battle may not be seen as many may depict, the wicked will pick out the weak and restrict them of anything that may conflict them from turning us into victims or resist them from becoming a convict, addict or being tricked by them.
So it is crucial to know how to handle such a menacing foe that'll have us undergo a life filled with misery and woe if we should want to throw in the towel, let go and allow them to grab a hold of our soul.
Whether you think it's spiritual or not, we all have a belief that there are forces out there that can cause to feel grief or relief and we all choose a side to receive an increase in extreme self-esteem that advocates in the defeat of deceit, disease and all the mean things.
So it may be spiritual or materialistic, however you may see out whether you're Catholic or atheistic, there are sadistic and twisted spirits out there creating more statistics right now as I speak about it.
Stand strong like a soldier, tough like a boulder and be the beholder of a more powerful enforcer right by your shoulder to help maintain your composure in the midst of overexposure to spiritual torture; this is war.

it came into the world itching to have one of your panic attacks.  your father

with his overexposure
to abandonment
called its body

bottled water from the town of torn muscles.

fear was a cigarette case and fear was also a lunchbox.  teeth

were part of a shadow
census
operating
in a flood
of milk.

it cheered horribly.  it cheered and a bug bite became a birthmark.

Tower of Silence - Track 2

Intro
(((Hey, I’m heading back up my tower
I am be careful!
I’ll come down when it’s no longer safe)))

Hook
There’s panic in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you but it’s kinda late
You should probably be concerned with our mental state
The truth is all around me but my mind’s not made
My heart is with you somewhere but my head’s not safe

Verse 1
I’m a product of this culture, just another soul convinced it’s over
Taken over, taken fall to the world of overexposure
I’m the poacher, killing this son and killing my brothers
I fear my crave for blood—circling above
No I am not enough, no this is not enough
Whose blood soaks the door? Should I even do this anymore?
I am a vulture, feasting on a past that’s dead
Blood-soaked feet—keep my fangs soaked in pain
Can’t escape the thoughts ramped in my brain
Plummet on the thought that my mind’s insane

I’m just another copy
Copy and paste, brob’ly, He caught me
Is this really who I’m suppose to be?
This is not what you’re suppose to see
Who is this that’s stoppin’ me?
Voices, voices tell me I’m a copy
Bounty, on me—tired of mockery
Counterfeit seems to fit the description
To the point it’s ‘bout to stop me
Is this the plan of the one who bought me?
If so, nothin’ can’t stop me

Hook
There’s panic in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you but it’s kinda late
You should probably be concerned with our mental state
The truth is all around me but my mind’s not made
My heart is with you somewhere but my head’s not safe

Verse 2
My Kind, my Blood—they mean so much to me
I hide, behind—who I’m not suppose to be
No, this is not what you’re suppose to be
Is this suppose to be what’s truly me?
Take it easy with this poet, please
I’m scared to death of what you’ll think
Because it could be the death of me
I’m scared of my own voice
I don’t know if it’s my own choice
This thing—is it just a dream or is it the beginning
If singing is my meaning
A cover over my head, I wear a headset
Noise begins to make me afraid on my mindset
I let words get through—I regret
That I allow the words to linger and set
This has come to be my headrest, I bet
The reset, is just another test
A solution to drown is not the best
Because now the sound gives me no rest
But the nepotistic noise and voices I get
Becomes my choice with the volume I set

Hook
There’s panic in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn’t tell you but it’s kinda late
You should probably be concerned with our mental state
The truth is all around me but my mind’s not made
My heart is with you somewhere but my head’s not safe
You should probably be concerned with our mental state

Verse 3
There’s a problem with our society
Worse than suicide, depression, and anxiety
It’s how we deal with these problems
Rather, it’s how we cause them
If I didn’t know better, I’d think you look a bit dead yourself
Not a Heaver, not a Breather, just caught up in your head
But wake up and join our battle cry
To help these dry bones come to life
Scared of the pace in change so you stay in place
Open your eyes and crank up our volume
Fall out of formation, help our vocation
And take a chance to take off your costume
Because right now our rates are hallow
It’s culture’s fault, though it forbids
So wake up to the things that you hid
And what you put on display
That death is a logical way
I don’t mean to sound harsh
It’s just, we need your heart
I don’t want to be crude
It’s just, I think it’s a but rude
Just what Sleepers do
Listen, I fall victim to it too
Please excuse me and do what I do
But no it’s not just a mere fad clad in sadness
They need to know, together we will get far
And help us say this gloom is not who we are
Come together in this path that needs paving
And be wary of the message you’re engraving

Outro
My opinion, life’s worth living
Culture say, might as well
Problem is, it won’t sell
Death’s addictive, but the price to live
Is worth the pay, so I will stay
Please stick around, I’ll have you found

apathy is a rightfully

peculiar equanimity--

growing indifferent

to overexposure.

filming period pieces

of weather.

too still for any life.

you'd better be too

dead to play the part

enough to be overlooked.

peace must consider you.

There's danger in the lines of these rhymes I make
Maybe I shouldn't tell you but it's kinda late
You should probably be concerned with my mental state
I fear I'm a product of this culture
Just another soul convinced it's over
A vulture, the poacher, taking fall to this world of overexposure
I feast on a past that's dead
Can't escape the thoughts in my head
I feel the pull begin as my faith will drain
I plummet on the thought that my mind's insane
My heart is with you somewhere but my head's not safe
The truth is all around my but my mind's not made

Jan. 14. 3025
~For vb~

******* watery eyes and haven’t even
gotten even got started, even though you may
have noticed, I’m even reusing the same words over the over/under line again cause I’m thinking, nah, believin’, my words running out is a definite possibility

wait! your
words are fine,
quality ✅,
quantity ✅,
maybe baby, you’ve just run out,
of vision vitamin supplements or your insights, dinted by overexposure to winter
sunlight are inside, festering and pestering to un chill,

and baby, it’s cold gray blustery days and they just want hang out on the inside,
where the lake of caffeine perking, kerning, keeping you, you,

ain’t looking for
a partner, serious loving, even flirtatious
flings don’t mean a thing cause they ain't got that swing, and *** you are unconsciously
borrowing old song lyrics, because the good
stuff is overused, overrated and let’s face it,
fret-tingly overlooked  and worst,
overu s e d

me-being an antique, don’t mean value ain’t necessarily so, just old and all told, and
user up, and the space between lurches,
hits and misses, torrid + horrid, is tiresome,

and maybe,
you’re a waste of space of valuable interpet real estate, that should be chilling in reserve like that last bottle of nouveau Beaujolais from France  circa 1985
or just sinked inked to a stainless steel
grave in a kitchen sink

<^>the possible implications
of such a condition,
beyond complex
volcanic volatility,
as a final
spewing,
until then
I’m stink~eyed,
until
you
ex~stinked
me

there’s an acorn made of sensible things
never in your tree. your branches sprawl
unencumbered by the width of a paradox
dangling from an infinite Other.
you extend your extremes
by simply living through an eon
of overexposure.
you wane like a champion of Nightfall
but your Love is another ******
thing.

lost the remote. now the adventure begins.
when Bookstores were actual, you could go there
and find what browsing smells like, by-hand,
but pacing back and forthright on **** affords -
the grand vistas
of sustained contemplation.
candles lit for no reason
just pretty.
laptop humming like a soft boiling box
of overexposure.
and there’s the bourbon
on a resolute desk
like a summoning
of moonshine
with a caramel
sun.

all that, and
no pun.